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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880847">you were raised by wolves and voices</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen'>thepetulantpen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Masked Bard [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Injury, But only a little, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Witcher!Jaskier, brief references to sex, canon? idk her, main ship is geraskier but ger/yen is mentioned, seriously this isnt even divergence i just threw the show out the window</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 14:55:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,578</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> Geralt hates contradictions. </em>
</p><p>  <em>Unfortunately, humans tend to be obsessed with them, which makes interacting with them all the more difficult. Geralt can only take comfort in the fact that his world is generally free of contradictions; beasts are straightforward, as are witchers—</em></p><p>  <em>Or, they’re supposed to be, anyway. </em></p><p>In which Jaskier is a witcher and a bard. And Geralt is confused.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Masked Bard [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>My Bookmarked Witcher Stories</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. some fictions we took to mean fate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been sitting on this idea for ages, but I finally decided to throw my hat in the ring of witcher!jaskier fics! Maybe this'll get me to actually write instead of just read during quarantine. </p><p>Work title is from The Horror and The Wild by The Amazing Devil (which Joey Batey sings in!). All the chapter titles are also Amazing Devil lyrics, I'll put the songs in the end notes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt <em>hates</em> contradictions. </p>
<p>Unfortunately, humans tend to be obsessed with them, which makes interacting with them all the more difficult. Geralt can only take comfort in the fact that his world is generally free of contradictions; beasts are straightforward, as are witchers—</p>
<p>Or, they’re supposed to be, anyway. </p>
<p>He senses another of his kind as soon as he enters the tavern. It starts as a feeling, an instinct, and solidifies into a smell, a slightly different twang than that of a human. Picking up on the scent is easy, but tracking it is near impossible in the thick crowd. </p>
<p>A cursory glance at the dark corners reveals nothing, which is odd, but not as odd as the lack of word of another witcher on his arrival. Or, even stranger, that the contract he’s accepted wasn’t already taken. </p>
<p>It’s almost enough to make him second guess himself, but then he picks it out: a slow heartbeat, pounding out a different rhythm from the rest of the tavern. </p>
<p>He scans the room, but doesn’t find much of note. There’s a biggish man slumped over the bar, a barmaid pushing her way into patrons’ personal space, a group of rowdy kids taking up three tables, and an older bard dressed entirely in cheap gold fabric. Nothing that screams witcher, no sign of swords or leather or blood.</p>
<p>Taking his seat- in the same dark corner he expected to be occupied- Geralt closes his eyes and lets the sound and smell combined make a whole shape in his mind’s eye. It moves about his awareness and, if he concentrates, he can track the pattern of it making circles around the room. </p>
<p>He opens his eyes to find the crowd seated, watching with rapt attention as a bard dances about the tavern, strumming out a cheerful tune on his lute.</p>
<p>No. That <em>can’t</em> be. </p>
<p>It can’t be but it <em>is</em>. Now that he’s identified it, he can’t deny his senses. </p>
<p>Pieces start to click into place as he watches. The shock of grey-white hair interrupting the remaining brown he’d assumed to be a sign of age now sticks out like a sore thumb, the pattern too unnatural. His sure steps, even in the parts of the tavern completely obscured by darkness. The way he doesn’t slow or tire as he dances, though it’s well into the night now and he must’ve been at it for hours. </p>
<p>Geralt leans slightly out of his seat to look for the eyes, the easiest sign, and finds his next curiosity. </p>
<p>The bard’s wearing a mask, with a thin layer of... lace, or something, over the eye holes. The material is gold and covered in glitter, reasonably obscuring the vivid irises it’s intended to hide. It's set in a masquerade style, playing at hiding his identity while only covering about half his face. He's customized it heavily, the embroidery at its edges and precise patterns of glitter too intricate to be anything but an expensive commission. </p>
<p>His chair creaks with his movement and Geralt curses himself when the bard- the <em>witcher</em>- tenses, skipping a step in his dance. He recovers in a half-second, too quick for a human to notice, but his performance ends, almost abruptly, when the song does, much to the displeasure of the crowd.</p>
<p>“Thank you, you’ve all been a <em>lovely</em> audience, but I really must retire for the night.”</p>
<p>He walks backwards out of the tavern room and toward the door, hurriedly waving away a barmaid that tries to pawn another drink off on him. Geralt watches for a few moments, listens to the footsteps on the stairs, and then rises, following the smell. </p>
<p>The bard’s door is still partially ajar, just enough that Geralt can see him quickly shoving belongings into a bag. Geralt’s steps are careful, silent, but he only gets within a few feet of the room before the bard notices him and freezes. </p>
<p>For a second, Geralt thinks he’s going to run or fight him but he just sighs and turns around, sounding <em>inconvenienced</em>. A little bored, even.</p>
<p>“Who’s there?”</p>
<p>“You already know.” He <em>must</em> hear and smell, just as Geralt had.</p>
<p>A short huff, almost a laugh. “I was hoping for a name, actually. Unless you’d prefer just <em>witcher</em>, I guess, though that might get a little confusing.”</p>
<p>Geralt takes a few cautious steps forward, standing in the doorway. He pauses to think, trying to figure out how this could possibly be, and then, his sense returns. </p>
<p>“Geralt.”</p>
<p>“Ah, you <em>are</em> the one I’ve heard of. Should’ve known by the hair but, well.” He clears his throat and stares from behind the mask, then seems to snap out of it. “Come in, if you’d like. Probably best to discuss this away from eavesdroppers.”</p>
<p>Geralt steps into the room, gingerly, still half-expecting a trap. False sense of security, and all that. </p>
<p>The room, however, looks normal- for a bard, that is. There’re fine clothes stacked on the bed, a lute in its case and a nice leather bound notebook sitting beside it. </p>
<p>No weapons in sight. </p>
<p>“I’m Jaskier, by the way. In case you were wondering.” Jaskier moves behind him to close the door, shoulders still tense as Geralt’s eyes follow him. “I know you lot aren’t ones for conversation, or polite questions.”</p>
<p>“<em>My</em> lot?”</p>
<p>“Our lot, I suppose, though it contradicts my previous statement.”</p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head, beyond words. He has so many questions, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answers. </p>
<p>“Go on,” Jaskier seems far from speechless and that impatience creeps back into his tone, an impersonation of a noble with better things to be doing, “I know there’s a storm brewing in that head of yours. Ask me what you want to know.”</p>
<p>“Just- what are you?” It’s rare that Geralt hears his own voice come out uncertain, but there’s nothing to say that isn’t crazy or unhelpful. “How- why are you doing <em>this</em>?”</p>
<p>“I think we’ve established <em>what</em> I am, so that’s a bit of a stupid question, but as for the others,” Jaskier looks up at him, gold mask weirdly threatening in the fading light, “I’m doing <em>this</em> because I like it, and I’m able to because I’m an adult and no one is here to stop me.”</p>
<p>Geralt stares and stares and gets the strange impulse to take the mask away, and the even stranger feeling that it wouldn’t help. He would still look like a bard, maybe even more so without the mask. </p>
<p>Jaskier tilts his head, thoughtful. “To be fair, now that I’ve thought about it more, your first question wasn’t terrible. If anyone else had asked me, I’d say a bard, of course. Maybe that tells you something.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s brain feels fuzzy and he struggles to come up with something that’ll express how <em>wrong</em> this all is. </p>
<p>He settles on, “You talk a lot.”</p>
<p>Jaskier laughs, <em>loud</em> and so unlike a witcher. </p>
<p>“You’ve hit that nail on the head, my friend. That’s typically what bards do, along with singing and playing and dancing and fucking- though, witchers share a fair bit of that last category.”</p>
<p>“You’ve left the Path.”</p>
<p>“Left, abandoned, never looked back.” Jaskier hums, <em>cheerfully</em>, in agreement, then his eyes, even behind the mask, turn dagger-sharp. “Is that why you followed me up here? To try and force me back?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>Jaskier pauses, giving Geralt time to elaborate, then, realizing his mistake, asks, “Why, then?”</p>
<p>
  <em>To understand. </em>
</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Right. Well, while we’re here,” Jaskier steps into Geralt’s space, closer than comfortable, “I have a proposition for you.”</p>
<p>Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier ignores him then, horror of horrors, turns his back, walking across the room to stare dramatically out the window. Geralt can feel his own instincts burn in protest- he’d never turn his back on an armed stranger- and he can’t imagine how Jaskier has managed to so easily put his own aside. So much training, so much pain and it’s all...</p>
<p>Faded. Hidden under a mask.</p>
<p>“My songs- <em>masterpieces</em>, rather- have been running a little dry in the inspiration department.” With his back turned, Jaskier attempts to portray cool confidence but Geralt can see him bite his lip and hears his nervousness in his heartbeat. “I know there’s a contract floating around- something about a kikimora- and I was hoping I might be able to join you. Just to watch, of course, you can keep the coin.”</p>
<p>Another contradiction that his mind struggles with, like prey too large for a snake’s already unhinged jaw. They’re <em>both</em> monster hunters, made into this, and yet—</p>
<p>“You want to <em>watch</em>?”</p>
<p>Jaskier seems to brighten, as if Geralt is a particularly dense student who’s finally gotten the right answer, and, in his excitement, turns back to stand close to Geralt again. “Yes! The glory and guts will make for <em>excellent</em> lyrics—“</p>
<p>“Why can’t you do it yourself?”</p>
<p>“It’s far harder to get the details when you’re in the thick of it. Adrenaline, you know? Dreadful storytelling. Besides,” the bard scoffs and waves a hand, dismissive, “I’m not exactly <em>brimming</em> with weaponry.”</p>
<p>Geralt glances around again, looking closer for a sword. There <em>must</em> be one, must be <em>two</em>, really. </p>
<p>Jaskier sees him searching and looks down at his feet. Guilty, Geralt thinks, and he turns on him, unable to stop a confused frown. </p>
<p>“What did you do with your swords?”</p>
<p>Jaskier scowls and sets his face like steel, hard lines turned indecipherable behind the gold mask. The expression doesn’t match the delicate silks and bright colors, bringing together an impression of a witcher dressed up in an unconvincing disguise.</p>
<p>“I’m a bard. Can’t exactly be carrying around heavy swords, it’d ruin my image.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t answer my question.”</p>
<p>He laughs, though it’s dry, humorless. “What answer do you prefer? That I pawned them off? Abandoned them by the road? Returned them to Kaer Morhen?”</p>
<p>Geralt is silent, still. Jaskier is <em>not</em> still, shaking with energy and some emotion Geralt isn’t sure he recognizes. </p>
<p>The bard opens his mouth then seems to think better of it and shuts it again. He takes a step back and another, retreating toward the bed. </p>
<p>There’s a gap between them and Geralt feels like he can breathe again. His mind still buzzes, protesting this contradictory creature. </p>
<p>A witcher bard. How <em>absurd</em>. </p>
<p>Jaskier sighs, too loud and exaggerated like it’s all part of a performance, and plops down heavily on the bed. From where he sits, he leans his head on one hand and looks up at Geralt, thinking. After a moment, he seems to arrive at a conclusion. He reaches up and undoes the ties on his mask, releasing it to fall into his hands. His eyes, no longer guarded, nearly glow in the dark as they cut back to Geralt.</p>
<p>Geralt just stares, and misses whatever Jaskier says next, brought back only when his face changes, frown deepening.</p>
<p>“Well? Do we have a deal?”</p>
<p>Geralt grunts, for lack of a better response, and Jaskier grins, softer than any witcher has a right to be. There’re sharp fangs in his mouth, but they are not bared and Geralt cannot imagine there ever being blood between them.  </p>
<p>The smile contradicts his eyes, sharp and animal bright, but Geralt doesn’t stay in the room long enough to get a closer look.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>“You’re <em>useless</em>.”</p>
<p>“Now, that’s a bit unfair. I think my charming personality and lovely musical talents have quite a few uses, thank you very much.”</p>
<p>Jaskier is picking at his now bloodstained doublet with a grimace, more displeased than he ought to be considering he didn’t even do any fighting. He really just <em>sat there</em>, out of range, and watched Geralt cut down a kikimora. Only just close enough to be on the receiving end of some blood splatter that Geralt may or may not have aimed in his direction out of spite.</p>
<p>Probably not. Witchers aren’t supposed to feel spite.</p>
<p>Well- they’re not supposed to be bards either, and yet here they are. </p>
<p>“Thank the gods I had the forethought to wear red today.” </p>
<p>He is- with a new mask to match. Geralt wonders just how many of those things he has, and whether the person he commissions them from ever gets suspicious. The red is vibrant, shiny like any bard’s outfit should be, and it does not blend in at all with the dark stains of near-black blood. </p>
<p>“I don’t suppose you know a decent laundress? Have you <em>ever</em> had anything washed, or do you just let dried blood add more layers to your armor?” Jaskier wrinkles his nose, then looks oddly thoughtful. “I seem to recall something about taking care of leather to preserve its delicate balance between flexibility and firmness.”</p>
<p>Geralt grunts and doesn’t look up from his work cutting the head off the kikimora, as proof of a job completed. “Do you also recall how to butcher a kikimora?”</p>
<p>“Gods, no. Pretty sure you just hack at it until it comes off- that’s traditionally how beasts are butchered, anyway. If you don’t care for precision.”</p>
<p>The kikimora head is freed with one last slash, rolling across the ground until Geralt stops it with his boot. It really was an overgrown beast; now that the head is off, Geralt can see that it’s absolutely not going to fit on Roach. It’ll probably require two hands to get a proper grip, so he wouldn’t be able to lead her either. </p>
<p>If the alderman hadn’t requested the head, specifically, he wouldn’t be having this problem. He should’ve talked him down, but he didn’t think it’d be an issue. </p>
<p>Jaskier is still making faces at the severed head and rubbing absently at blood stains that aren’t going to come out. Geralt looks between him and Roach, thinking through possibilities. </p>
<p>He sighs, already dreading what he hasn’t even decided to do. </p>
<p>“Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“Hm? You got it, didn’t you? Ready to head back and get some drinks- I’ll buy, if you’d like, as a show of gratitude—“</p>
<p>“The head is too big.”</p>
<p>Jaskier blinks, uncomprehending, and opens his mouth to ask for clarification, as he usually does, but Geralt speaks again first.</p>
<p>“If I wrap it in a tarp, do you think you could carry it for me?”</p>
<p>“A tarp?” Jaskier steps forward, cautiously, around the pool of congealing blood. “I guess so. But, in that case, <em>you’ll</em> be buying the drinks.”</p>
<p>Geralt grunts, in acknowledgement rather than agreement, and starts the work of rolling the monster head onto a tarp. He supposes he’ll at least have an excuse to finally replace this old thing, and find one with a few less holes that’ll actually keep some rain away. </p>
<p>Any other witcher could’ve just held the head for him, but Geralt has to accommodate for Jaskier’s musician’s hands and the fingernails he insists are of utmost importance. It’s an inconvenience, but it would’ve been more of an inconvenience if he’d had to do it by himself.</p>
<p>Not that he’d ever tell Jaskier that.</p>
<p>It’s done and tied in short enough time. Jaskier hefts it easily, and the sight of his deceptively muscular, small body lifting a monster head almost his weight is disconcerting. </p>
<p>Jaskier, however, seems in good spirits. </p>
<p>“See? I’m not useless! In fact, I’m sure I’ll be fantastic help on further missions as I follow you across the Continent, singing of your heroic exploits—“</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter title is from Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil. Stay tuned for updates!</p>
<p>EDIT: added a few sentences properly describing Jaskier's mask since I forgot the first time and it's bothered me since. Future readers, pay this no mind.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. after summers of fasting i feel hunger at last</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A few beasts, and even more songs, later, they’re sitting by a campfire. Jaskier, incredibly, has followed through on his threat to stay with Geralt, and it’s not the only threat he intends to fulfill- they can’t walk into a tavern without Jaskier performing his newest hit, one song of many telling the tales of the White Wolf.   </p>
<p>Geralt had thought- perhaps foolishly- that he’d be able to shake him in a few days. Had Jaskier been just a bard, he might’ve been able to. All those delicate sensibilities have no place amongst the blood and cold and general discomfort of the Path, but Jaskier is not just a bard, as Geralt is frequently reminded.</p>
<p>Jaskier is a deadly combination of witcher and human. He’s got the irritating persistence of a human and the witcher constitution to back it up. He can spend the night complaining about their sleeping arrangements and their food, but never have trouble sleeping or wake up sick. There’s no losing him, he easily keeps up even when Geralt pushes Roach a little faster than he would normally go. </p>
<p>If anything, Jaskier has become <em>more</em> clingy, insisting on following along on more hunts, writing more songs, pestering Geralt with more questions. It’s strange to have someone look him in the eyes and ask earnestly about silly things like what sort of fish is Geralt’s favorite. Even the music gets gradually less grating when Jaskier sings it softly by the fire, handling the lyrics with more precision than he would bother with for a large audience.</p>
<p>There’s something tender in his voice when he sings for just the two of them, testing and practicing before he brings a song to the stage. It hugs the edges of his words, wrapping layers of gentle emotion around descriptions of things Geralt didn’t even know Jaskier had noticed- giving the stable boy an extra tip, bringing back lost tools to an impoverished farmer, reaching the high shelf for a child at the market.</p>
<p>He tries to ignore it- he’s not qualified to comment on the meaning of Jaskier’s attention or notice distinctions in tone when Jaskier says his name, anyway.</p>
<p>It doesn’t take long for him to become skilled in tuning out Jaskier’s constant singing and incessant chatter, letting it fade into background noise that’s alarmingly comforting, after months of being around the bard.</p>
<p>But no amount of experience can eliminate the sound completely- some of it still slips through the cracks. More than once, he’s found himself listening to tales of Jaskier’s sexual exploits that can’t possibly be true.</p>
<p>Farmers, mayors, duchesses. Wives and husbands, daughters and sons.</p>
<p>There’s a painstaking amount of detail in each story- which Geralt suspects Jaskier includes just to annoy him because, really, even Jaskier probably doesn’t remember the exact shade of the lady’s underwear- but there’s always one crucial part missing, one step skipped in the minutes-long description of them getting down to their smallclothes. Never a mention of the moment his mask drops, the moment they see his eyes and his scars- the moment, Geralt presumes, they run screaming.</p>
<p>He doubts there’s any way these stories would end so pleasantly if his lovers discovered their bard was really a witcher- but there’s no way he could’ve gotten so far in these <em>encounters</em> with the mask on.</p>
<p>Although- the image of Jaskier in a mask and nothing else is disturbing. Or distracting, at least.</p>
<p>He should keep his eyes on the forest and stop thinking about Jaskier’s exaggerations.</p>
<p>When it grows dark, Jaskier takes off his mask, as has become routine between them. Geralt is almost sure it’s for his benefit (the bard doesn’t seem to remove it for any other occasion, even in the heat of summer or the darkness of an empty road, and acts as if it’s a part of his face) but he’s not sure whether it’s better or worse to see the bard’s eyes peering at him from across the fire.</p>
<p>Removing the mask exposes that Jaskier’s face <em>is</em> a witcher’s face, not just an eccentric performer’s. His eyes are undeniably supernatural and they break the illusion of the guileless bard by being too sharp, too observant. Minus the sparkle of his mask, his grey swaths of hair look dull and dead, taken over by mutation rather than an effect of age. But most noteworthy is the scar across his nose, at the bridge, whose source Geralt cannot identify, though it’s ragged enough that he can assume it was violent, and probably painful.</p>
<p>Without the mask, Geralt’s mind can finally form a coherent image of a witcher, no strangeness to obscure the truth. </p>
<p>Until Jaskier starts talking. </p>
<p>The likeness of a witcher, scarred and hardened, is shattered on the edge of a wide smile and words- so, so many words. Geralt had previously assumed that the words had been ripped out of witchers in the same way everything else was, but Jaskier seems to have stolen his back, plus a few others’ share. </p>
<p>It is, once again, mismatched. A witcher’s face, and a bard’s voice. </p>
<p>It’s as if he’s seeing a different person every time his eyes unfocus and refocus. One second, Jaskier is fueling the fire with a subtle <em>Igni</em>. The next, Jaskier is playing a jaunty tune on a lute. </p>
<p>An <em>inaccurate</em> tune. Like a peasant who doesn’t know the difference between a striga and a werewolf; not like a witcher who’s had these bestiaries drilled into his head, forced to remember or die in battle with an unfamiliar beast.</p>
<p>“What are you thinking about over there?” Jaskier’s hand stalls on the strings and moves to fidget with the tuning pegs, cutting off the music. “Your mood is making the air taste bad. At this rate, I’ll lose my appetite.”</p>
<p>“Nothing. I’m not thinking about anything.”</p>
<p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Even a human could tell you’re lying, Geralt, honestly, you think so loud I feel like I should be able to read your thoughts in the wrinkle of your forehead.”</p>
<p>Geralt frowns and turns the rabbit roasting over the fire. He’d had to kill that, too; Jaskier didn’t want to get his hands dirty. </p>
<p>“I don’t know how you do it.”</p>
<p>“Do what, my brevity loving friend?” Jaskier shifts his lute aside for a moment to shoot Geralt a winning smile and prop his head up on his hands, as if putting his face on display. “Maintain such incredible beauty and charm? Play the lute with masterful grace? Sing with a voice loved by the gods themselves?”</p>
<p>The fire cracks and pops while Geralt gathers his thoughts and Jaskier, patient as ever, goes back to the quiet <em>twangs</em> of his lute. It’s hard to ask Jaskier <em>anything</em>, by the time he’s finished talking Geralt tends to forget what he’d meant to say.</p>
<p>“How do you convince people you’re just a bard?”</p>
<p>Without missing a beat, or looking up from tuning his lute, Jaskier answers, “I’m an incredibly skilled liar.”</p>
<p>The simple, honest response is more surprising than it should be. Of course, he just <em>lies</em>. Just convinces people, <em>somehow</em>, that he’s not what he is.</p>
<p>“I can sense your doubt from here- can smell it, rather.” Jaskier’s eyes sparkle, mischievous, and he leans forward, closer to the fire than he should. “What do you think I couldn’t pull of?”</p>
<p>“All of it. Just,” Geralt pokes the fire, frowning, “they have to figure it out, eventually.”</p>
<p>“People can be very stupid. Especially when you’re charming and handsome and willing to fall into bed with them.” Jaskier smiles, basking in fond memories. “To start, the hair is easy to explain. Ladies actually love some salt and pepper and, if they don’t, well. There’s always dye, though the upkeep gets a bit expensive and time consuming.”</p>
<p>Jaskier hums and brushes a hand through his hair, then points to his eyes, framing them delicately with his hands.</p>
<p>“By the time they get to see behind the mask, pretty far into the night, most people don’t ask about the eyes- honestly, I think they convince themselves it’s just a particularly bright amber- but the few who do ask get whatever story I spin in the moment. I’ve told some it’s a curse and others that I had an accident in an alchemist shop.”</p>
<p>“And they just believe that?”</p>
<p>“Pretty much. We’re rare enough these days that not many have gotten close enough to really know what a witcher’s eyes look like, beyond poetic description. Which, coincidentally, I have some amount of control over.”</p>
<p>The exaggerations in his lyrics make a lot more sense, in hindsight. Jaskier’s eyes are far less striking than the sort he’d normally describe in song- Geralt has to take a moment to reconcile the man who wears good boots to a swamp with the one that thinks far enough ahead to mislead the public and protect his identity through a ballad about glowing cat eyes.</p>
<p>Put off by the thought, Geralt looks away, listening to the sounds of the forest and their twin, slow heartbeats. “The heartbeat?”</p>
<p>“Bedfellows don’t usually search for a pulse and would more readily assume they’re doing it wrong than accuse me of being a <em>witcher</em>.”</p>
<p>“But the ones who do figure it out?”</p>
<p>Jaskier pauses and frowns, deep and bitter enough that Geralt regrets asking. The silence stretches and Geralt is sure Jaskier isn’t going to answer, is going to do what Geralt does, what <em>any</em> witcher does, when confronted with something like this and just stay silent. </p>
<p>But Jaskier is not like any witcher. He’s almost the opposite, and sometimes Geralt thinks he does things just to be contrary. </p>
<p>“There are a few towns I can’t go back to.” Jaskier’s voice is quiet, uncharacteristic, when he answers. “Rocks sting more without armor.”</p>
<p>Mindlessly, Jaskier’s hands travel up to touch the scar on his nose, feeling along the ridge it’s created. Geralt is pretty sure it couldn’t have been done with a rock, but the metaphor doesn’t escape him. He may not be a poet, but he’s not an idiot either. </p>
<p>Still, he can’t help himself but wonder at <em>why</em>. </p>
<p>“Why not wear the armor then?”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s frown deepens and he looks almost... angry, but Geralt has never seen him past annoyed so it’s impossible to be sure. Then, his face smooths out, easy as donning a mask. </p>
<p>He looks up at Geralt, forcing his voice to be jovial, “Why do <em>you</em> still wear it? Surely you’ve thought about quitting and saving yourself the pain.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“No? What do you mean ‘no’?”</p>
<p>“I’ve never thought about it,” he shrugs and pulls the rabbit off the fire, “I’ll be doing this until I slow and die.”</p>
<p>Jaskier accepts his portion of rabbit in silence, a horrified look of <em>realization</em> on his face. Geralt wishes he knew what Jaskier knew, wishes he could have a realization as well. </p>
<p>It’s not in the cards. Jaskier doesn’t speak for the rest of the night, just watches the fire and tunes his lute, perhaps more than necessary. There’s space for Geralt to ask, but he doesn’t break the silence. He’s not meant to, doesn’t really know <em>how</em>. </p>
<p>They sleep, bedrolls the perfunctory one foot apart. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil (Again. Can you tell I have a favorite?).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. this here is not singing, i’m just screaming in tune</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two chapters in one day! Trying to get these edited without driving myself crazy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been a long fucking time since Jaskier has picked up a sword. He’d say he’s forgotten how to wield it properly, but he’d be lying to himself. These directions are written in his blood, engraved in muscles that were bent violently, painfully into place. </p>
<p>When he picks up Geralt’s sword from where it’s fallen, he expects something dramatic to happen. He expects to be possessed by bloodlust or hear a persuasive call back to the Path or get a hand upside the head by Destiny herself- but there’s nothing. </p>
<p>It’s just a sword, just a weight, heavier than he remembers. His grip adjusts automatically, hands switching easily from a musician’s to a hunter’s, and he prays that this won’t mess up his playing.</p>
<p>He surprises himself with how quickly he strikes, how quickly he takes his place on the battlefield, feet and body shifting into an offensive stance in the space Geralt was pushed out of. The sword comes down between the overlapping scales of the wyvern, in a chink of its natural armor, wedging without resistance into softer flesh. It screams and everything is a blur after that. </p>
<p>Geralt is up, arming himself with the steel. There’s another wyvern- no, <em>two</em>- claws and teeth and a <em>tail</em>. </p>
<p>Burning pain. Clashing steel, sizzling silver. Back to back with Geralt, embroidered silk against studded leather. </p>
<p>He feels like he’s split in two- one half of his mind watching with rapt attention for strikes that’ll make particularly good metaphors, and the other half completely consumed with battle. His head is so filled with a distracting cacophony of memories and swarming thoughts- half-formed melodies and old texts of monster manuals- that it comes untethered, body acting independently of his runaway thoughts.</p>
<p>
  <em>Mind the fangs. Long, white crescent moons cutting through the night—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Weak spot, there. A bit of rot, wedged between the scales, corruption leaking—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Through the heart, now. The beast falls with one last horrible shriek, like a poorly tuned lute—</em>
</p>
<p>His hands know it’s done before his brain does. He lets go of the sword and he’s suddenly on the ground, off shaking legs.</p>
<p>No, not shaking. Wounded- the <em>tail</em>. He remembers why that was important at the same time he looks down at the long line of blood running down his calf, wound black at the edges. It <em>burns</em>.</p>
<p>“Shit, Jaskier.” </p>
<p>Geralt has recovered faster than him, on account of better reflexes and an unburdened mind, and is rooting through his potion bag. There’s a gold one, Jaskier knows its name and he knows what it does- even, if pressed, remembers how to make it- but the information stays buried for now as instinct takes over, snatching it from Geralt’s hands. </p>
<p>He kicks back the potion, feeling its once familiar burn travel down his throat. His stomach clenches in cramps he thought he’d finally left behind. It brings unbidden memories of writhing in pain on a cold stone floor, his scream only one of many.</p>
<p>The burn chases away the fire in his leg- the <em>venom</em>, his brain finally supplies- and he feels the bleeding already slowing to an easy stop. His breath and his heartbeat steady, back to the slow processes of a mutated body.</p>
<p>Jaskier frowns up at Geralt, knowing he’s probably a grisly sight with the bloodstained mask. “I hope you know you’ve ruined any chance for me to get decent lyrics from this encounter.”</p>
<p>Geralt’s face freezes in the distinct way it does when Jaskier has surprised him. He’s intimately familiar with this look, by now. Actively seeks it out, actually.</p>
<p>Jaskier holds out a hand, prompting Geralt to numbly help him to his feet. His leg is sore, but the poison is counteracted and the danger has passed. </p>
<p>“It’s lucky I pack an extra mask, it would’ve been entirely too inconvenient to have to walk about town like a mourner in a cloak. Or, worse, stagger in with blood on my face.”</p>
<p>“You’re lucky I pack extra potions.” Geralt frowns down at the potion pack, counting under his breath and, Jaskier assumes, making a mental note to get more ingredients. “What would you have done if I didn’t have any Golden Oriole left?”</p>
<p>“Died, I guess. What kind of question is <em>that</em>?”</p>
<p>Geralt gets an unfamiliar expression on his face, one of <em>realization</em>. Perhaps he’s actually thinking for once, actually worked something out. </p>
<p>Maybe he’s realizing he cares. Wouldn’t that be <em>rich</em>? </p>
<p>Jaskier shakes his head, suppressing a smile, and starts back towards where they left Roach. He listens for the heavy footsteps to follow a few seconds after, when Geralt has recovered from <em>thinking</em>. One of these days, he’ll have to help him out with that- not that he hasn’t already given his fair share of hints.</p>
<p>“Let’s go get some drinks, yeah? We can use the coin we’ve just earned- and, yes, I expect a cut for my contribution.”</p>
<p>Geralt grumbles quietly behind him, but there’s a distracted note to his voice and Jaskier can tell his heart isn’t really in it.</p>
<p>“Maybe after I’ve subtracted the cost of that potion.”</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>Yennefer has met Geralt a handful of times (by chance, on a hunt, at first and then intentionally, when she wanted his... company) but she’s never met another witcher. </p>
<p>Despite her inexperience, she thinks this one is <em>not</em> normal.</p>
<p>In fact, she’s sure she wouldn’t have noticed it was a witcher if Geralt hadn’t told her. The bard probably would’ve preferred that, given that he’s taken to hiding himself with a mask. </p>
<p>They match, actually, though her masks bring out her eyes where his hide them. It’s a point of connection between them, that and their obvious care for Geralt. </p>
<p>People rarely amuse her nowadays, but Jaskier might be the first in a while to spark enough interest for a conversation. She’ll have to pull him aside later.</p>
<p>But first: Geralt. </p>
<p>He’s easier to read than he thinks he is- even without telepathic gifts. It hasn’t taken much time at all for her to recognize unease in the slight furrow of his brow, and downturn of his neutral scowl. </p>
<p>He’s brooding, again, and she feels she has the right to be a bit peeved when he shows up, for the first time in months, with a new love interest in tow and barely any attention to spare for her. He’s only here because he needs to restock on potions, though he is politely, and poorly, pretending otherwise. To add further insult, he’s stocking up more than usual, which she suspects also has to do with his weird new bard.</p>
<p>She reminds herself to charge him extra, and to demand a few extra favors, when the need arises. It rarely does, given that involving Geralt is almost always more trouble than it’s worth, but she’s patient, and immortal. He’ll get what’s coming to him, even if she won’t quite remember what she was annoyed about by that time.</p>
<p>For now, she’s resigned to take up her duties as emotional support, unqualified as she is.</p>
<p>“What’s on your mind?” Yennefer rolls over on the bed, turning towards where Geralt is sulking by the window. Her curiosity is feigned; she just wishes he would come back to bed, honestly.</p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t answer for a while, glaring at the trees and birds like they might be out to steal his coin. She’s starting to think it’s a lost cause when he speaks, unexpectedly. </p>
<p>“What do you think of him?”</p>
<p><em>Jaskier</em>. Yennefer glances up, toward his room above them. She wonders if he can hear them, with his witcher senses, though it wouldn’t change her answer.</p>
<p>“I’m bitterly jealous of him.”</p>
<p>Geralt raises an eyebrow and half-turns toward her. “We’re not—“</p>
<p>“You are, but that’s not what I meant. I mean,” she bites her lip, rethinking the words, “he made a <em>choice</em>.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods, as if he understands, even when Yennefer knows he doesn’t, not really. Not because he isn’t capable or hasn’t been through the same things but because he’s <em>Geralt</em>. </p>
<p>He knows how to roll with the punches, but throwing his own? Not as experienced as he thinks. The man wouldn’t even change his haircut unless someone gave him permission. </p>
<p>She continues, though she knows her point is already lost, “He could’ve lived the life they intended for him, but he <em>chose</em> to be a bard, even when it seemed like he didn’t have a choice.”</p>
<p>“He’s still a witcher.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” she’s staring at the ceiling now, picturing Jaskier at his desk, busy writing a new ballad as they speak, “<em>physically</em>. But not really, not whenever he can help it.”</p>
<p>Geralt grunts and Yennefer reconsiders just reading his mind again, but decides against it. Best to preserve the mystery, half of what makes the otherwise straightforward Geralt interesting. </p>
<p>She’d be curious to find out if Geralt is jealous, too, or if he’s just angry. Regretful of the lost opportunities to live as the bard has, to choose a new life. Or, regretful of the opportunity to dream enough to <em>have</em> regrets.</p>
<p>Then again, he could just be confused, or annoyed that the bard is acting a fool and getting in his way. Though, that wouldn’t explain the way they look at each other, like they’ve finally found their new life, new dream, new destiny. </p>
<p>Jaskier has, honestly, shown them all up. Stronger than every single one of them, even if he still can’t beat Geralt in an arm wrestling match. </p>
<p><em>Gods</em>. Could he be throwing those, too?</p>
<p>“Come back to bed. No more Jaskier talk in the bedroom, unless you’re keen on inviting him.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing Devil.</p>
<p>First appearance from Yen! She'll be back (she ships it).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. you dragged me along to watch all of your shows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Whenever they meet, they pretend it’s by chance. </p>
<p>It goes like this:</p>
<p>They stumble across each other in taverns or on roads, with cheerful cries of “what are <em>you</em> doing here?” As if they don’t know, as if their answers aren’t the same every time. </p>
<p>They pretend Jaskier hasn’t been keeping an eye out for monsters Geralt may be hunting. They pretend Geralt isn’t keeping an ear out for the famous masked bard. </p>
<p>They take Geralt’s annoyance with Jaskier at face value and tell themselves he doesn’t care. They take Jaskier’s dislike of Geralt’s grumpiness as truth and tell themselves there’s nothing beneath the surface. </p>
<p>It’s the same no matter where they end up and it’s the same now, in the tavern of some backwater town that’s unusually active with music. </p>
<p>Geralt slides into his normal spot in the corner and waits- for an ale, of course, <em>not</em> Jaskier. </p>
<p>Jaskier is playing a song that’s not new to Geralt- he’s heard it many times, as it was painstakingly composed over months of travel- and isn’t about Geralt, either. One of the rare few that seems to stem from Jaskier’s own imagination, some twisted idea of exciting folklore and mostly real monsters. </p>
<p>He doesn’t pause to greet Geralt, sparing him just a wink, and stays at the bar to talk to fans after his set, possibility of coin and sex taking priority. A young woman responds immediately to his presence, moving carefully, casually into place beside Jaskier, who gives her a brilliant smile- only very subtly different than his smile during performances, just a bit narrower, closer to sultry.</p>
<p>“That’s him, isn’t it?” She doesn’t look away from Jaskier but her head tilts towards Geralt, the movement sending ripples through her long hair. “The white wolf, from your stories?”</p>
<p>Geralt wishes he couldn’t hear them so clearly. He tries to focus on maintaining a snarl that’ll keep anyone from getting any ideas of approaching him and, hopefully, discourage them from staring. It also, conveniently, keeps him from catching the wistful smile Jaskier throws in his direction.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Jaskier waves with an emphatic flourish, as if presenting Geralt to her, “He’s magnificent, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>The girl takes a look at Geralt, sitting in the corner with his snarl and ale, and wrinkles her nose. “Seems like just as much a beast as I expected a witcher to be.”</p>
<p>“Oh, witchers aren’t so bad.”</p>
<p>There’s a brief murmur from nearby patrons at that blasphemy but the girl pays it no mind, curiosity curling in her smile. “Is that so?”</p>
<p>Jaskier is just as adept at ignoring the whispers, but he must be able to hear them; Geralt can, from across the room. Jaskier’s attention, at least outwardly, remains wholly focused on the girl.</p>
<p>“Certainly. Would I ever tell a lie?”</p>
<p>“An embellishment, perhaps.”</p>
<p>“My lady, you wound me!” Jaskier lays a dramatic hand over his chest, on the pulse of his slow heartbeat, a bass-y thing that serves as a contrasting tune to his upbeat music. Not that Geralt’s noticed. “I’ll just have to convince you with the details now, won’t I?”</p>
<p>She doesn’t respond, just lays her head on her hands and peers up at him with eyes and a smile that are well-practiced in making boys nervous. </p>
<p>Jaskier, however, is no mere <em>boy</em> and his eyes, shielded by the mask, never leave her face, meeting her challenge.</p>
<p>“Well, to start, they’re wise for all their many, many years. <em>Centuries</em> of knowledge and experience packed into one head, can you imagine?” </p>
<p>Jaskier pulls himself onto the bar, sitting so his hands are free to gesture wildly, theatrically, without hitting anyone. Geralt thinks, sometimes, he might also be that restless if he ever quit monster hunting- though, the thought of being bored enough to start prancing around like Jaskier is a horrifying one.</p>
<p>“Then, of course, the <em>strength</em> of a witcher is obvious, but have you ever heard tale of their gentleness? They must pluck maidens from the jaws of monsters with firm but <em>careful</em> hands.”</p>
<p>Someone mutters, “From one monster, to another.” Jaskier spins in their direction, fast enough to make the man shrink into his seat, but does not address him, not directly, as his voice carries to his lady. </p>
<p>“And their hearts, while mutated and strange, are capable of much.”</p>
<p>“Like?”</p>
<p>“Like,” Jaskier struggles momentarily with his words, too many or not enough, “like longing and heartache and lust.”</p>
<p>Geralt chooses a strategic time to bury his face in his tankard and, while the girl is distracted with cooing at Jaskier, makes his exit to their room. He’s not expecting Jaskier to come back tonight, and certainly isn’t hoping for it. </p>
<p>Certainly doesn’t miss him as he pries off his armor by himself, the clasps in the back taking longer than usual. Certainly isn’t unnerved by the silence. Certainly doesn’t wish Jaskier would play that nice song again, the one about the moon and—</p>
<p>A delicate knock, Jaskier’s knock. Overly careful, as he does everything, to overcompensate for his hidden strength. </p>
<p>Geralt gives him a passive look as he opens the door wide enough for Jaskier to waltz inside, lute in hand. “What happened to your girl?”</p>
<p>“Eh, I didn’t particularly feel like it, tonight.” He holds up his lute before tucking it into its travel case and flexing his fingers, cramped from playing. “Already put on enough of a performance for one day.”</p>
<p>Jaskier plops down on the bed beside Geralt and starts pulling off his boots, tossing them in the corner unoccupied by Geralt’s things. A corner that may or may not have been left for him. Purely out of habit. </p>
<p>Geralt’s talking before he can stop himself, “You didn’t have to say all that.”</p>
<p>“Who says I said it for <em>you</em>?”</p>
<p>Jaskier raises an eyebrow, and the silence hangs between them for a minute, neither willing to let go, then Jaskier smiles and gives Geralt a pat on the arm. </p>
<p>“Relax. Of course I meant it for you.”</p>
<p>Geralt does not <em>relax</em>. If anything, he tenses, unsure how he should take that. Jaskier doesn’t bother to clarify, lets the compliments and their meaning remain unsaid between them. </p>
<p>They have plenty of time, really, to figure it out. Centuries together, if Geralt doesn’t manage to get himself killed. </p>
<p>For now, it’s just... what they do. Jaskier plays a song, Geralt grumbles. Jaskier asks questions about their plans for tomorrow, Geralt gives him one word answers. Geralt <em>wonders</em>, Jaskier <em>waits</em>.</p>
<p>It’d fine, except—</p>
<p>Except it’s not like that, not really. Geralt’s curiosity is eating him alive and Jaskier, despite his smiles and oversharing, is not an open book. He’s infuriatingly difficult to read and impossibly evasive when he wants to be. He doesn’t even need the mask to pull it off effectively, he can talk for hours without saying anything at all and steps out of the way of personal questions before they’re even asked.</p>
<p>Geralt has gotten the idea, after months of frustration, that he’s going to have to be the one to break the pattern. Because he’s not like Jaskier and he can’t read the bard like the bard can read him. Jaskier always jokes that he’s fluent in the langue of witchers- which is, once again, absurdly unfair, as Jaskier no longer seems to use that minimalistic tongue- but around Jaskier, Geralt feels like he’s forgotten language altogether. </p>
<p>“Your song.”</p>
<p>They’re sitting close enough- shoulder to shoulder on the small bed- that Geralt feels Jaskier twitch in surprise. Geralt’s voice doesn’t often break the silence, and Jaskier is rarely caught off guard. A break in the pattern, indeed.</p>
<p>Still. He’s not sure where to go from there.</p>
<p>“Which song? The new one?” Jaskier smiles and turns to fully face Geralt. “You liked it, didn’t you? You’re ready to finally admit you’re a fan—“</p>
<p>“It’s inaccurate. A striga isn’t anything like a werewolf.”</p>
<p>Jaskier hums, a mimic of Geralt’s, though it takes its own tune. It’s something he doesn’t do in mixed company, Geralt’s noticed.</p>
<p>“To be fair, I never actually got around to fighting one of those, so I haven’t seen it in person. Not like my other very accurate, close-quarters recollections.”</p>
<p>It feels a bit like a reward, to have even just that piece of information. Geralt knows he’d get more if he just asks, but another part of him doubts that, thinks that Jaskier might talk his way around it. Put a mask on the subject and send it off, parading as something it’s not.</p>
<p>“You’ll just have to tell me your story, then, oh great striga expert.”</p>
<p>His victory disappears and Geralt frowns. That’s how it’ll be, then. Maybe he could—</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you mine, if you tell yours.”</p>
<p>“Mine?” Jaskier’s eyes widen, though he looks more amused than anything else. “My what, dear witcher?”</p>
<p>Geralt tries very hard not to let his regret show on his face. There’s no way to back down now that Jaskier has let him talk himself into a corner.</p>
<p>“One of your hunts. When you were on the Path.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s face remains amused, but it’s tighter now. Guarded. The amusement transforms from something honest, to a wall. It blocks Geralt’s already limited view of Jaskier’s thoughts as he considers the trade.</p>
<p>Finally, his lips quirk in an odd grin, one Geralt hasn’t seen before. It’s alarming to discover there are still unexplored depths to Jaskier’s facial expressions.</p>
<p>“Fine. I’ll tell you the story of my first hunt, if you tell me about your striga.” Jaskier reclines and leans a bit away from Geralt, like he’s trying to get a better angle to study him from. “But no skimping on the details. You’ll only get what you give, understand?”</p>
<p>It’s a trade. Simple, easy to understand.</p>
<p><em>Finally</em>. Something about Jaskier that doesn’t make his head hurt or require his eyes to unfocus.</p>
<p>He takes a breath and he tells his story, answering all of Jaskier’s stupid questions- he wants to know everything from the weather to the color of the poor girl’s hair. Is likely going to make it into some gods-forsaken rhyme, but Geralt doesn’t really care. Not this time, because it has purpose. Like… collecting information for a job.</p>
<p>Then again, Geralt can’t think of any job Jaskier could possibly be a part of, but he sits back and listens all the same.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid my story is a great deal more boring than yours. Not even much to be helped by embellishment—“</p>
<p>A drowner. A missed strike, a scar on his arm. A payment, a hollow feeling.</p>
<p>He does, to be fair, attempt to exaggerate parts, putting too much emphasis on the almost assuredly made-up maiden he’d been rescuing and describing his “mortal wound” in detail that doesn’t even come close to matching the scar. All in all, Geralt surmises it was about the same as any witcher’s first hunt: uneventful and painful.</p>
<p>“It was really when I knew I wasn’t meant for all this,” Jaskier gestures vaguely, and lets his sleeve slide back over the jagged, white scar he’d shown Geralt, “but it was rather fascinating to see what all the books were on about. I thought… well, I <em>decided</em> I’d like to see it all without the teeth and claws and mortal peril.”</p>
<p>“And you just… left, after that?” Geralt’s voice comes out softer than he expects, almost an echo of his thoughts.</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles, thin but tolerant. “Not immediately, but that’s a story for another day.”</p>
<p>Maybe it’s the suspense, the promise of another story. Maybe it’s the proximity, pressed together on the inn bed. Maybe it’s something deeper, some feeling he hasn’t had time to examine past the mystery of Jaskier, but Geralt makes a decision right then and there.</p>
<p>He’s not going to let this go until he gets to the bottom of it. Jaskier is drawing him closer and closer, coaxing out words and questions that’d begged for the light of day. He wants to hear more, wants to pick apart every facet of Jaskier as he turns from frustrating to fascinating.</p>
<p>And, though he doesn’t realize then, Jaskier makes a decision, too.</p>
<p>He’s going to stick around, for as long as it takes. Until Geralt’s walls fall and he lets Jaskier in. Until Jaskier sees him without his armor, without the mask of stoicism. Until Geralt allows himself to do more than observe from a distance.</p>
<p>Tonight, they settle into their normal routine and resolve to do more in the morning, when the heat of their conversation has faded to a faint, healing burn.</p>
<p>They share a bed because it’s <em>efficient</em>, for keeping out the draft. They curl around each other for the same reason, the same warmth. </p>
<p>They travel together because they’re always heading in the same direction. They talk, sometimes about important things and always without looking each other in the eye.</p>
<p>They stay together and they follow each other onto the road, for reasons they’d never say. </p>
<p>Geralt, because he’s <em>lonely</em>, and Jaskier because... well. Because. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. you’re not flawed darling, you’re just a little under-rehearsed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you think there’s anything I could do to help him?”</p><p>Jaskier sprawls inelegantly on the velvet couch of Yennefer’s newest manor, having chosen to stay with her while Geralt is out on some errand. Something boring, without any of the action needed for a good song- Yennefer made sure of that, when she arranged it.  </p><p>She follows Jaskier into the sitting room, settling on the couch opposite him. Each moment spent with the bard introduces a new curiosity and she intends to catch every one of them. “Help Geralt? With what?”</p><p>Jaskier frowns and Yennefer marvels again at how open and honest his face is, nothing like Geralt’s face of stone and occasional misery. </p><p>“I just- he seems so <em>unhappy</em> and I—”</p><p>“You’re happy and you’re hoping to share the wealth?”</p><p>“It’s not <em>just</em> that.” Jaskier sighs, exasperated, though it’s not clear whether it’s with himself or Yennefer. “He seems to think he can’t choose anything for himself.”</p><p>“He hasn’t exactly been given many chances to do so.”</p><p>Jaskier gets quiet at that- even his hands still, stopping their perpetual motion of tapping and fidgeting. Yennefer almost feels bad, but he must <em>know</em>. He would’ve been through the same thing, if she understands how witchers are created. </p><p>“I know. But it doesn’t have to <em>stay</em> that way, they’re... well, most of the people who created us are dead.” Jaskier shifts and looks down, guilty. “Not to say they all deserved it, <em>of course</em>, but there’s no one expecting us anymore. We could just live.”</p><p>“It’s not always as simple as someone literally watching you.” Yennefer pinches the bridge of her nose, not truly frustrated with Jaskier but unhappy with her own memories. “Sometimes just the thought is enough.”</p><p>“But <em>you’ve</em> chosen something for yourself.”</p><p>Yennefer laughs and Jaskier frowns, indignant. She thinks he would blush if he could, but witchers don’t <em>blush</em>. </p><p>“I’m serious! I doubt the Brotherhood sanctioned your orgies.”</p><p>“It’s little more than petty rebellion. I let them mold me, from the second I was sold to Aretuza. I leaned into it, wanted to be powerful.” It’s more than she means to say, but Jaskier has the unique talent of making people feel comfortable enough to spill their guts. Even without the mask on- perhaps more so without it.</p><p>Jaskier’s voice is quiet when he wants it to be, when he needs it to be. It’s almost more powerful that way, even if it wouldn’t carry across taverns. “You sell yourself too short.”</p><p>She doesn’t comment on that, though she’s aware it makes her just as bad as Geralt. Instead of a grunt, she relies on misdirection, “Has Geralt ever told you how he came to be a witcher?”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier smiles ruefully, “he’s not much of a storyteller. But I can assume- there’s not much difference in most kids’ stories.”  </p><p>Yennefer hums and Jaskier turns to her, gold eyes wide and a little sparkly. It’s a feat to make typically intimidating, animalistic eyes look so disarmingly innocent.</p><p>“What about you? Did he tell you?”</p><p>“Not exactly, but I’d say your guess is accurate.”</p><p>Jaskier worries his lip between his teeth, carefully to avoid sharp canines. She can appreciate, now, how careful each of his many, <em>many</em> smiles must be, that she never really notices the fangs. His thoughtful look is somehow just as loud and obvious as the rest of his expressions, and she reads it just as easily. He’s not sure he <em>wants</em> to share, but knows he’s <em>going</em> to. It’s in his nature, to tell stories.  </p><p>When he does share, it flows out all at once, like a bottle overturned.</p><p>“I was the same- as you and Geralt, I mean. I heard that the money my family got from selling me off brought them years of prosperity, after some decent investments in wine fields.” He smiles, bitter and mirthless. More cutting than she’s seen from him yet. “Until a drought wiped them out, some fifty years ago.”</p><p>“I’m sorry.” She’s not, really, as she anticipates Jaskier’s answer. </p><p>“Don’t be. I tracked them down, after I changed, and, well, they didn’t exactly invite me in for dinner.” He brightens a bit and laughs, genuine despite the somber air. “Ironically, I don’t think they would’ve approved of me being a bard either. I’m not sure what they would’ve preferred if they could choose again: monster or minstrel.”</p><p>“It’s funny how they regret ruining your life, isn’t it?”</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>Jaskier half-turns to peek out the window, though he knows Geralt won’t be back for a few more hours and he’s more likely to hear him before he sees him, anyway. Yennefer knows for certain Geralt won’t be gracing her door until nightfall, preoccupied with the wild goose chase she’s <em>accidentally</em> sent him on.</p><p>In the meantime, Jaskier looks back at Yennefer, a question he’s been dying to ask on his mind, “What are you two?”</p><p>“Friends with incredible benefits.” The lack of hesitation in her answer seems to surprise him and she wonders, again, how he and Geralt manage to maintain the tension between the two of them. “You?”</p><p>“Almost friends, I think.”</p><p>She laughs, both at the answer and the honest consternation on Jaskier’s face. “You’re kidding, right?”</p><p>“I wish.” Jaskier shakes his head and gestures roughly toward the window, presumably indicating the mysterious forces at work in Geralt’s head. “The man is terrible at emotions. He’s never even called me a friend.”</p><p><em>That</em> is a little surprising, considering. “He did to me.”</p><p>“Really? Well, that would’ve been nice to hear. Maybe strike up the conversation again sometime and let me listen in through the door.”</p><p>Yennefer grins at the thought of hiding Jaskier in her closet as she attempts a heart-to-heart with Geralt. “He’d hear you.”</p><p>“Hey, I can be pretty quiet. I just choose not to be.”</p><p>She doesn’t doubt that, though she’d be curious to find out whose senses would win, in that matchup. </p><p>Jaskier gets a thinking look on his face, like he’s pondering life’s great mysteries. It’s the same expression he wears when he’s coming up with lyrics, waxing poetic about nature and love and adventure- which he’s doing all the time. A brilliant multi-tasker, he told her while he tried to write with one hand and eat his breakfast with the other.</p><p>“I think he’s in love with me.”</p><p>It’s all Yennefer can do to keep from rolling her eyes. He’s nearly as dense as Geralt, damn it. </p><p>“What gave you that impression? Was it the love-struck looks, the soft voice he uses with you, or the way his face lights up when you enter the room?”</p><p>Jaskier chuckles but doesn’t relent, always more resistant to the tides of her chaos than ordinary people- and witchers, for that matter. “Kid all you want, but he’s not as obvious as my romantic ballads in his name.”</p><p>“Sounds like you need to lower your expectations.”</p><p>“I get that a lot.”</p><p>Jaskier smiles, bright and performative. It’s surprisingly difficult to tell what he’s really thinking off just the smile, now that Jaskier isn’t writing the clues across his face. The expressions, she realizes, are an <em>effort</em>, a deliberate divergence from the default hard, still lines of a witcher’s face.</p><p>Yennefer sits backs and blows out a sigh. “We’ll need to work together on this.”</p><p>“Making Geralt happy? Or making him confess his undying love and passionate affection for me?”</p><p>“I think they’ll likely be one in the same.”</p><p>It’s a little too sappy for her and Jaskier looks like he’s going to tease, but he backs off at her warning glare. She’ll never get used to the sight of those powerful eyes, normally monstrous and unyielding, turned downright adorable alongside his playful grin, soft and easy.</p><p>He changes tact, landing in more familiar scheming territory. “How are we going to do this? Good old fashioned shenanigans?”</p><p>“We might just start with telling each other what we know.” Yennefer frowns at Jaskier’s petulant expression, his dissatisfaction practically sparking in the air. “Don’t give me that look. Information gathering is an essential first step.”</p><p>Jaskier huffs, like a child, and Yennefer <em>almost</em> laughs, just managing to maintain her dignity. “Fine, then. What do <em>you</em> think he wants?”</p><p>“You. He wants you, bard.” Yennefer does roll her eyes, this time. It seems so godsdamned obvious.</p><p>“He already has me. Doesn’t he understand that? For such an intelligent man, he really doesn’t <em>see</em>—“</p><p>“You’re right. He doesn’t understand you.” <em>That</em> is a revelation, a new understanding. As she says it, she recognizes how terribly true it is. “You might as well be a new monster or, worse, a human to him. Too complex, too nuanced.”</p><p>“What am I supposed to do about that?” Jaskier’s face freezes, tense as he always gets when anyone even approaches the subject of his humanity. Or lack thereof.</p><p>“Talk to him.”</p><p>Jaskier crosses his arms, a habit Yennefer is pretty sure he’s subconsciously adopted from Geralt. “Are we talking about the same person? Geralt doesn’t do heartfelt conversation, not unless he’s bleeding out.”</p><p>“He bleeds out plenty. Just wait.”</p><p>“You’re not wrong about that, but I am rather impatient, I’m not sure if I’ll—“</p><p>“In all the decades you’ve lived, you’ve surely learned how to bide your time.” Yennefer stands and moves over to a cabinet, summoning the bottle of wine and wine glasses she’d prepared for this part of the conversation. “When he’s ready, I’ll have something for the two of you.”</p><p>Eyebrows furrowed, Jaskier rolls onto his side and up into a sitting position. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“I’ve found that most misunderstandings just need the proper… space. To work themselves out.” She hides her smile behind the glass, taking an overly delicate sip. “Or, in this case, a lack of space.”</p><p>“I’m not following.”</p><p>Yennefer offers her second wine glass, filling it with a flick of magic. Jaskier, unlike Geralt, has some taste in alcohol and graciously accepts her offering, but he keeps the puzzled look. It makes Yennefer smile; she likes confusing people, it’s her main hobby, these days.</p><p>“I figure if I keep you two in a confined space for a while, then—“</p><p>Jaskier cuts her off with a hand wave. “Are you gifting us a <em>closet</em>?”</p><p>“A little more spacious than that. A nice cottage, by the coast. Previously my beach house.”</p><p>Equally incredulous, yet with a different inflection, “You’re gifting us a <em>house</em>?”</p><p>“I’m <em>lending</em> you a house. I’m sure it’s not as fancy as the famous masked bard is accustomed to, but it’ll do. For your purposes,” she smirks, “It has a sturdy bed and everything.”</p><p>Jaskier is still holding his glass in one hand and the wine sloshes dangerously as he gestures to… all his problems, she supposes. “Sex doesn’t solve everything.”</p><p>“I <em>beg</em> to differ.”</p><p>“Didn’t think you’d go for that sort of thing- thought you’d be more the type to make someone beg, than to bother yourself with it.”</p><p>He gets a light punch to the shoulder for his trouble, and does an unfairly good job at feigning pain. Just like a human. Sometimes, Yennefer thinks that Geralt must be wrong, that Jaskier is only a man, never made to be a monster hunter.</p><p>Then, Jaskier fixes her with those eyes again, so serious. Dramatic, honestly, but they’re sharp enough that Yennefer feels herself straighten subconsciously.</p><p>“Do you really think that’ll work? Or that I could even get him to the coast?”</p><p>“Only one way to find out.”</p><p>Yennefer raises her glass and Jaskier meets her toast.</p><p>“To Geralt.”</p><p>“To both of you idiots.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Marbles by The Amazing Devil.</p><p>Very dialogue heavy, but I love writing Yennefer and Jaskier together. They're both petty and dramatic enough to be good friends- not to mention they both have to deal with the ridiculousness of Geralt.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. every time that you fumble, i’m the laugh from the back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the delay! Some school deadlines snuck up on me, but I should be back on track now.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well, isn’t this nice.” Yennefer nudges Geralt, a bit forcefully. It takes quite a nudge to knock him out of that observant trance of his. “There’s music and everything.”</p><p>The words seem to shake him from his reverie. He stubbornly refuses to look at the aforementioned musicians and hums pointedly, his head turned sharply away.</p><p>Yennefer leans in closer, closer than polite at functions like this, and allows her hair to brush his face. “What was that, dear?”</p><p>“I asked if you’ve seen the man you’re looking for.”</p><p>Yennefer pulls back with a disappointed sigh- she’s good at those, one of her many talents- and says, just a little too loudly, “You’re trying to get rid of me already?”</p><p>It has its intended effect both in their unwitting audience- within which at least two men eye her like fresh meat- and Geralt- who slightly tightens his grip on her arm. Less possessive and more protective, but she’ll take what she can get.</p><p>“You have a job to do.”</p><p>“And a party to enjoy.” Yennefer looks up as the music comes to a stop with a round of applause, producing a perfectly timed break. “Speaking of.”</p><p>Geralt tenses beside her and leans away, like he’s going to make a break for it, but Yennefer hooks her arm more securely in his. She may not be able to contest the strength of a witcher, but the threat of what she’ll do if Geralt leaves her is enough to root him to the spot.</p><p>One of the musicians and his finely carved lute- it must be ancient, maybe even from days when he would’ve brushed shoulders with elves- is making his way through the court. He walks slowly, leisurely stopping at every cry for his attention- and he garners plenty of attention. His bright blue and green color palette is modelled after a peacock, to match the feathers adorning his mask.</p><p>Geralt, Yennefer thinks, looks <em>jealous</em>, which is brutally funny. She’s never seen him jealous, not of anybody or anything, but the wrinkle between his eyebrows is a dead giveaway.</p><p>Finally, Jaskier pretends to notice them, as if he isn’t keenly aware of every time he is in within a mile of Geralt. Yennefer waves innocently, like an adoring fan, and Geralt looks down, studying the impractical boots and silks she made him wear.</p><p>The bard, as he approaches, goes through the theater of his usual reaction- eyes widening, back straightening, muscles tensing. Fear, awe, the works. It’s expected of anyone who meets a mage, though she knows it’s an act for especially observant audience members.</p><p>It’s a fascinating look on a witcher, of all things. <em>Geralt</em> certainly doesn’t give her many awestruck or terrified looks, not even the first time they met. The attention is nice, but the contradiction is better, the knowledge that this delicate, bright-eyed boy is a monster-killing machine and he, at least on the surface, is <em>scared</em> of her.</p><p>“The famous Jaskier. How fortunate that you happened to be performing tonight.”</p><p>“Yennefer,” he greets and adds, much warmer, “Geralt! To what do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>“We just thought—“</p><p>Geralt cuts in, blunt and unconvincing, “Yennefer has business.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks at him, letting his pause hang just a moment longer than it should, long enough to make Geralt to nearly balk, frowning at his own terrible lie- or, rather, omission. There’s more than one reason they’re here, after all.</p><p>Yennefer would like to know how he’s managed to make Geralt do that; she can barely get the man to look abashed at using up all the hot water. She’ll have to ask Jaskier to teach her, sometime.</p><p>“Right, of course.” He smiles again, plastered on perfect, with no cracks to reveal he is anything but overjoyed. “Scoping out virgin sacrifices? Princesses to turn into toads?”</p><p>“Actually,” Yennefer starts, falling into the easy rhythm of teasing- always easy, with Jaskier, “I need crushed witcher vocal chords. Geralt’s are defective, so I figured I only had one other option.”</p><p>The façade of fear in Jaskier’s posture breaks open wide at his laugh, confident in the face of the well performed threat in Yennefer’s voice. She’s been told it’s hard to tell when she’s joking, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to have a problem.</p><p>“Two for one! That one hurt me <em>and</em> Geralt. Well done, well done indeed.” His face falls slightly and he drops into a tighter smile, more serious. “But, my lady, I ask that you keep your voice down. I have a reputation to uphold around here, after all.”</p><p>“A reputation? Dressed like that?”</p><p>Jaskier splays a hand over his chest, mouth opening in mock horror. “I had to build my reputation from the ground up at least eleven different times—“</p><p>“I refuse to believe you’ve lived <em>eleven</em> lifetimes.” She gives him a good look up and down, though she knows she’ll find no signs of age. She’s not in the sort of circles that concern themselves with music, so she can’t say exactly when she first heard of the masked bard, but it surely couldn’t have been much more than a century ago.</p><p>“No, but I get bored rather quickly. Need an image change, once in a while.”</p><p>“An image change, with the same mask motif?”</p><p>“I’ve tried a few different things.” He glances around; unnecessarily, as his voice is low enough that no human’s senses would be able to overhear. “Once, I pretended to be blind, even wore bandages around my eyes. He died an unfortunately early, dramatic death because, well, that was a stretch, even for me.”</p><p>“I can see why Geralt is having trouble finding a depth to your stupidity.”</p><p>Jaskier shrugs and the sequined padding on his shoulders crinkles. “Not my fault you two immediately assumed I was completely shallow.”</p><p>Geralt clears his throat, too loudly. Jaskier and Yennefer turn in tandem, twin expressions of judgement in their mirrored frowns.</p><p>“Yes, Geralt? Would you like to weigh in on my shallowness, or lack thereof?”</p><p>“No,” Geralt crosses his arms and looks distinctly uncomfortable, no match for the focused attention of the witch and witcher, “I just thought I was here for more than gossip.”</p><p>Yennefer shares a smile with Jaskier, then grins up at their witcher, donning a look of feigned surprise.</p><p>“Ah, yes, thank you for reminding me. In fact, I think I see the person I was looking for so, I’ll leave you two to it.” She gives Jaskier an encouraging pat on the arm and Geralt a somewhat patronizing salute. “Thank you again for your assistance, oh mighty witcher.”</p><p>Geralt blinks and she’s gone, cutting cleanly through the crowd before allowing it close after her. She may as well have stepped through a portal- they have no chance of seeing her again tonight, and she’s probably not after a lead, if Jaskier were to guess.</p><p>Jaskier watches her go and feels, ridiculously, a twinge of nervousness. He can’t believe she’s left him here to confront this tangled mess of feelings- then he sees Geralt’s face.</p><p>Gods, there’s no way this man is nearly as old as he is (Jaskier does, actually, remember him from the witcher days and it brings him no small amount of joy to think that he’s got a half century on the <em>White Wolf</em>) with the emotional intelligence of a toddler. And the habits of one, since he’s decided that scowling at the ground is going to get him out of this situation.</p><p>Or hide the fear on his face. As if Jaskier couldn’t hear, feel, and smell his nerves from halfway across the room.</p><p>Maybe it’s because he’s a truly twisted creature, but knowing that Geralt, the practicing, heroic witcher of the two of them, is <em>nervous</em> makes him feel that much better. It’s easy, now, to take up the confident role, like a shady second involved a dubious plot to scoop up the lead singing part.</p><p>“Are you enjoying the party?” Jaskier shifts his weight, in a way he knows makes him look like he’s doing the standing equivalent of lounging. The question is less important, just to fill space. “I heard their ale is decent. Surprised they have any at all, as these are traditionally a wine sort of event.”</p><p>“I haven’t had any.”</p><p>“You, not sampling the ale? Who are you, and what have you done with my Geralt?”</p><p>Geralt looks distracted, not making eye contact, and the joke falls short. More drastic measures are in order, then. Jaskier isn’t the type to half-ass an effort to get Geralt’s attention.</p><p>He shoves Geralt, playfully, and, at the last second, decides to put much more force into it than he usually would. The result, to his delight, is nearly knocking Geralt off balance. The witcher stumbles and looks at Jaskier in disbelief, too surprised to be annoyed.</p><p>“Not so tough now, eh? Bet you wish you had the excuse of ale.”</p><p>Geralt, mercy of mercies, <em>does</em> smile, that little smirk he shares so rarely. Standing there, smiling at each other, they look, for the first time in years, like they’ve spent as much time together as they claim.</p><p>“Afraid I’m not in my preferred terrain,” Geralt picks at his silk shirt, which Jaskier assumes Yennefer picked out since it fits and is fairly flattering, if too extravagant for Geralt, “or my preferred armor.”</p><p>Music starts up again, prompting another dance. They are as far away from the floor as they could possibly get without leaving altogether; Jaskier can barely make out the alcohol servers floating just out of reach. Perhaps the one major disadvantage of their position.</p><p>He won’t be needed for another song or two, but he knows he can’t stay here, just short of touching Geralt, a polite (agonizing) distance away, forever.</p><p>Jaskier turns away from the music, the dancers, the <em>party</em> he’s missing, and up through his mask to Geralt’s face, as clear as it would be without the barrier of lace.</p><p>“It is a lot, honestly,” he says quietly, under his breath to thwart any eavesdroppers, “I tend to go for the less formal ones, myself. Less pressure. Less... risk.”</p><p>Something flickers across Geralt’s face, close to pain, but less visceral. Watered down, stifled.</p><p>Geralt takes a step closer, partially in front of Jaskier. Shielding him from view or harm or just… shielding him. He points to Jaskier’s mask, “I don’t think any human is physically capable of looking past those feathers.”</p><p>Jaskier swallows and hopes, uselessly, that the mask hides the way his eyes widen a little. The humor, he’s almost certain, is an attempt at cheering him up.</p><p>Geralt, cheering him up. It’s a novel thing, a wonderful thing, a… different thing. A layer, peeled back.</p><p>“Aw, thanks.” His voice is not wobbly, it’s not, and his answer is graceful, not choked.</p><p>Geralt turns his head, but remains looking at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye, directing a half-smirk at him. “I meant they’d probably be blinded by the sequins first.”</p><p>Jaskier tries to shove him again but Geralt is a fast learner with faster reflexes and he steps easily out of the way. It’s rude that he won’t even let Jaskier have that, since he lets Geralt win the arm wrestling matches, but he supposes competiveness, however subconscious, is a part of Geralt.</p><p>A part Jaskier is willing to live with, if Geralt will let him. If the next shove doesn’t get him thrown across the room.</p><p>“Well,” Jaskier takes half a step closer and reaches out a hand to hover just over Geralt’s shoulder, “I should probably get going.”</p><p>Geralt closes the tiny distance and looks down. Gold eyes meeting gold eyes, and Jaskier swears he feels a part of his heart go then. Snatched right from his chest.</p><p>“So soon?”</p><p><em>Gods</em>. Jaskier hasn’t fallen so hard in years, and doesn’t think he ever will again. All those decades he thought he was a great lover, that he loved with everything he had, he was a liar.</p><p><em>This</em> is everything. Geralt’s dry humor, sense of honor, and surprising tenderness, in the quiet moments. After fights, performances, campfires.</p><p>It’s hard, bringing out parts of himself he’d like to remain buried, but he figures it’s like a trade; he gives away some of himself, lets Geralt look beneath the mask and all its psychological layers, and, eventually, he’ll get to see beyond Geralt’s layers.</p><p>Eventually. Soon.</p><p>That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he turns back towards the crowd.</p><p>“I can’t dawdle for the whole evening. I do have a job to do; keen as you are on insisting I’m talentless, it seems the rest of the world doesn’t share your taste.” Jaskier smiles, softer than he means to. “See you around, Geralt.”</p><p>It’s not a question, but Geralt, to Jaskier’s surprise, gives it an answer. “I’m heading towards Lindenvale, in a few days. If you’re interested.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks and sees Geralt register, with some pride in that stupid smirk, that he’s knocked him off-balance.</p><p>“I’ll be there.” He winks, a wasted gesture beneath the mask. “Enjoy the show, until then.”</p><p>Geralt hums and Jaskier feels his stare as he watches him leave, watches the crowd absorb him once more. Jaskier retakes his position center-stage, amongst and above the humans at the same time.</p><p>Everything but performance dissolves as he starts his song. It’s about Geralt, the popular ones almost always are, and as he sings, he can almost imagine he’s an average, human bard. Barely has to put any effort into pretending as he gives in to the music, the dance, the audience. Their energy lifts him up and puts a bright filter over the world, compounded by the glitter falling in the eyes of the mask. </p><p>Except, a <em>human</em> bard couldn’t have gotten these lyrics. Too close, to wyverns and drowners and selkiemores, to have lived long enough to compose. Too long, walking across borders and sleeping on the ground and jogging after Geralt, to have not given up. Too experienced, with love and heartbreak, to have lived a short, human life.</p><p>The <em>gifts</em> the witchers gave him may have been twisted, in their eyes, but Jaskier didn’t exactly ask for them, did he?</p><p>He catches sight of Geralt in the crowd, in the shadows at the perimeter.</p><p>Geralt is <em>watching</em> him.</p><p>It’s not like when he catches others staring. There’s no lust or greed. No hint of suspicion or malice. No pressure to be more human, avert his eyes, dim his smile, slow his pace.</p><p>Jaskier smiles, wide. Just a flash of fangs, nothing anybody but Geralt would catch.</p><p>Geralt raises a glass- he got that ale, after all- and nods at him, just as the song comes to its loudest, grandest chorus. Before he’s swept back up in the tide of music, Jaskier has time to think that they may just have a shot at this.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Farewell Wanderlust by The Amazing Devil.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. where my marbles went</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Geralt wakes, it’s to the smell of Jaskier and the sound of his voice. His first impulse is to turn over and take some of the blankets with him- not because he <em>needs</em> them, just to hear Jaskier make that sleepy, annoyed hum and snuggle closer to Geralt, the only source of warmth.</p>
<p>Then, the pain in his shoulder and stomach light up like a fire and he’s yanked back to full awareness. It sounds like Jaskier has been talking for a while, probably at Geralt’s first twitch of consciousness, but it takes his mind a minute to transform sound into words into meaning.</p>
<p>“You’re an idiot. Are you <em>suicidal</em>?”</p>
<p>Geralt groans and opens his eyes to stare up at Jaskier, mask-less and covered in blood. </p>
<p>And scowling. A deep, honest frown that <em>almost</em> makes him look as scary as a witcher should be.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure? Because only people with a death wish take on that many ghouls without any help.”</p>
<p>“I’m a witcher.” His words come out slurred, but he’d deny it, if Jaskier did anything more than raise an eyebrow at him.</p>
<p> “<em>I’m a witcher</em>, he says. Don’t start with me, do you even know how long you’ve been out?” </p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t dignify that with a response, saving his breath to make an effort to rise. It’s much harder than he thought it’d be, his arms shake and a weight pushes him back onto the bedroll. He blinks in confusion, then sees Jaskier’s hand on his chest. </p>
<p>“Enough of that. I’ve barely got you to stop bleeding, you’re not ruining my work now.”</p>
<p>His groggy mind takes a while to equate the ideas of <em>Jaskier</em>, the delicate bard, and the <em>witcher</em> standing over him, holding him down. </p>
<p>Not even standing. Jaskier is sitting on the ground beside his bedroll, just one hand on Geralt to keep him in place. Geralt gets the feeling this isn’t the first time this has happened, Jaskier looks exasperated and doesn’t even bother to crack a joke about being stronger than he looks.</p>
<p>“You look tired.” </p>
<p>“Very astute, Geralt, I <em>am</em> tired. Give the man a prize.” Jaskier snorts, but little amusement makes it beyond the heaviness of exhaustion in his voice and face. “I haven’t gotten any proper sleep, since I had to watch you. Only meditation.”</p>
<p>The image of <em>Jaskier</em>, quiet and unmoving and <em>meditating</em>, is inexplicably funny, and Geralt finds he is nearly far gone enough to laugh at it. “Surprised you still know how to do that. I’d pay to see you still and silent for an hour.”</p>
<p>“Funny, most people pay to see the opposite.”</p>
<p>Jaskier tacks on a laugh but it’s soft, as though he doesn’t have the energy for his usual enthusiasm. Geralt feels relieved anyway, glad to see the dismal mood lift. </p>
<p>And even happier to see the bard smile again. Maybe he’s more affected by the blood loss than he thought. </p>
<p>His eyes catch on the blood, covering Jaskier’s hands and scattered across his front. The doublet is ruined; Geralt is sure he’ll be hearing about that- over and over for the next month, if past incidents are any indicator. </p>
<p>“Are you hurt?”</p>
<p>“No, it’s yours,” Jaskier leans over him again to fuss with the bandages, “and a bit of ghoul. I had to finish off the last one.”</p>
<p>There’s a ripping sound as Jaskier starts shredding more fabric for new bandages, just out of Geralt’s sight while he’s lying flat on his back. Geralt should be helping, but the thought of trying to get up again makes his back hurt more than the lumpy bedroll and rocks poking through the thin material.</p>
<p>“You owe me a new mask, by the way. And doublet, for that matter, but the mask is more difficult to replace. It’s not exactly a common item.”</p>
<p>Geralt grumbles quietly, non-committal, and stills, allowing Jaskier to change the bandages. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that it’s nice to rest while he’s still in pain from a slash across his stomach and a chunk taken out of his shoulder. But, of course, he’s never honest with himself and his instincts insist it’s a waste of time to sit here when he’s already half-healed. </p>
<p>Not that there’s anything he could do about it; Jaskier isn’t leaving any room for argument and Geralt can’t go up against another witcher in this state, as Jaskier has subtly reminded him.</p>
<p>Finally, the bard sits back and Geralt, carefully, shifts to see him better, finding his mind clearer now that it’s had a few minutes of peace to sort out where he is. Far off the main road, only just close enough to a small settlement for the ghouls to be a threat- nowhere near the places he tends to find Jaskier.</p>
<p>He squints up at Jaskier, who, his memory finally confirms, definitely wasn’t travelling with him yesterday. “How’d you find me?”</p>
<p>“My medallion nearly burned a hole through my bag with its vibrations.” Jaskier shrugs, more interested with frowning at the blood on his hands than answering Geralt. “I figured you wouldn’t be far from whatever nonsense it was detecting.”</p>
<p>“You kept it?”</p>
<p>Jaskier gives him an indecipherable look, guarded and uncertain. Searching for the right answer, perhaps. </p>
<p>Wordlessly, he pulls the medallion from his bag, showing it to Geralt. It’s a wolf, same as his, and Geralt wonders how old Jaskier must be for them to have never met at Kaer Morhen- or, for him to have escaped his memory completely.</p>
<p>Geralt takes it, feeling only a little guilty for the blood he smears on it. He turns it around in his hand and traces the familiar carvings.</p>
<p>Jaskier is hovering, nervous under Geralt’s inspection. “It’s the same as yours. No need to play spot the difference.”</p>
<p>“Hm.” </p>
<p>It’s not exactly the same, none of them really are. Every medallion is unique in its dents and scars- a reflection of its witcher. Geralt studies it, vying for hints or stories he can take for free, given this opportunity.</p>
<p>But it’s impossible to tell one scrape from another on the surface of the dark metal, just as it’s impossible to tell one scar from another on a person’s face. He’ll have to ask, he’s learned, so he makes eye contact with Jaskier, catching the soft glow of gold.</p>
<p>“What’s your real name?”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s face scrunches up, displeased, and Geralt is given a chance to reconsider his choice, “Pardon?”</p>
<p>“Jaskier is your stage name.” Geralt knows that’s not quite right, and a sense of dread is rising steadily in his chest at the sight of Jaskier’s darkening expression, but he’s never been one to back down, even from something he’ll regret. “What did they call you, at Kaer Morhen?”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em> is my name, thank you very much.” Jaskier looks down at his hands, a lost cause with the dried blood, and then back at Geralt, serious as his gold eyes turn bright, intense. “Why do you want to know?”</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs, as best he can on the ground with a fucked shoulder. It’s a lie, he <em>knows</em> why he asked. To know the witcher behind Jaskier, to know whether he ever met him or if Vesemir knew him or—</p>
<p>“Vesemir thinks I’m dead, if that’s why you want to know. Killed in the siege.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s eyes are practically molten and the scar on his nose raises as his face contorts around a frown. Geralt gets the bizarre impulse to smooth out those lines, to do anything he can to fix what’s made Jaskier angry, or upset, or... whatever he is. </p>
<p>“Alright.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s face <em>does</em> smooth, anger replaced by surprise. “That’s it? No more questions to try and flush out the witcher you seem so determined to find?”</p>
<p>“It’s not that.” Geralt doesn’t break eye contact, even when Jaskier tries to turn away. “I was just curious.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“I want to know more about you,” Geralt feels disconnected from his voice, the words coming out on their own, against his better judgement, “I want to understand you.”</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles, strangely pleased at that. Geralt isn’t sure <em>why</em> and wishes he’d explain that more than he wishes he understood his past.</p>
<p>“Well,” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand, tracing over his veins and scars, “I suppose I could tell you, but only if you <em>swear</em> to never call me anything but Jaskier, and if you don’t tell anyone else.”</p>
<p>Geralt nods solemnly, holding onto the remaining threads of his attention and forcing himself to stay awake for a little longer. Jaskier leans in, whispering in Geralt’s ear. </p>
<p>“Julian. It was Julian, when I was young and a witcher.”</p>
<p>Yet another conflicting concept. He can’t imagine Jaskier truly young, without the grey streaks and the scar or the mask and the weariness. It’s too much for his tired mind, so he files it away for another sleepless night of overthinking.</p>
<p>Geralt hums and Jaskier hums back, either mocking or acknowledging. He can’t tell the difference as everything starts to fade, the thin bedroll suddenly becoming much more comfortable. He must have been hurt worse than he realized, if his body is shutting down so soon.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s voice is the last thing he hears before he succumbs his dreams once more. </p>
<p>“Get some rest, Geralt.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Marbles by The Amazing Devil.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. make all of those mistakes that make me laugh</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Putting up a second chapter today, since they're both pretty short.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Stay still.”</p>
<p>Jaskier hisses dramatically when Geralt dabs at the bruise on his face. It can’t actually hurt that much, especially as it’s healing rapidly before his eyes, and Jaskier betrays his own performance with a half-smile at Geralt’s frustration.</p>
<p>“Of all the confusing things you do,” Geralt turns to put the salve back, “this one takes the cake.”</p>
<p>“It’s quite simple, really.”</p>
<p>Jaskier lays back and doesn’t elaborate, his smile telling Geralt that he will have to <em>ask</em> if he really wants to understand. It’s a game they’re playing increasingly often; Geralt wants to know almost as much as Jaskier wants to tell, but neither of them want to give in first. </p>
<p>Usually, Jaskier loses (a consequence of his impatience) but tonight, Geralt indulges him. </p>
<p>“Simple?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, as if this is so obvious it doesn’t require explanation, “The only way a man my size could win against three others is if I revealed my more... supernatural talents.”</p>
<p>“You let yourself be beat up so they wouldn’t find out you’re a witcher?”</p>
<p>“I let myself be beat up to save a stoning for both you and me.”</p>
<p>Geralt tries to concentrate on maintaining a neutral expression. Despite his arrogance, Jaskier always manages to make serious things about someone other than himself- it’s an irritating habit, even if Geralt can’t pinpoint exactly why it’s so annoying.</p>
<p>“This could’ve been avoided if you didn’t sing that damn song.”</p>
<p>“Ah, well, that damn song is also part of my work to lessen the stonings. With any luck, they’ll be tossing coins instead of rocks in the coming months.”</p>
<p>They already are, though Geralt would never admit it. It’s not the point, anyway, because there will always be stones, no matter how catchy the tune is. Eventually, the lyrics will be lost to time and reduced to a fragment of a rhyme with no meaning.</p>
<p>At the rate Jaskier is going, that’ll be long after the last witchers are dead. Still. Beside the point.</p>
<p>Geralt breaks away from Jaskier’s stare with the pretense of reorganizing his medical pack. There was no point to wasting the salve, not for injuries sustained in a fistfight, but it felt like the right thing to do when Jaskier showed up at his door with bruises and a split lip. So human, wincing in pain and tugging at his torn shirt- before the illusion was broken by his askew mask, revealing flashes of gold behind ripped lace. </p>
<p>“What if they’d gotten the mask off?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t have let them,” Jaskier speaks with his usual bravado, but Geralt hears the uncertainty under his words, “I would’ve figured something out. I can take care of myself, you know.”</p>
<p>“And yet you come to me to treat bruises.”</p>
<p>Jaskier stands from the bed and crosses the room, shuffling his feet to announce his presence. They have the same training, so Geralt knows his feet could be light, silent, but he gives Geralt plenty of warning before he settles by his side, staring down at the medical bag that hasn’t moved. </p>
<p>“You’re the one with the supplies. Besides,” Jaskier’s voice is quiet, absent of the teasing Geralt expects from him, “I trust you. To help me.”</p>
<p>Halting, <em>nervous</em>. Jaskier is giving him a crash course on human interaction he hasn’t needed to bother with in years. Geralt can’t bring himself to look up, can’t bring himself to see that human expression on a distinctly inhuman face.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Jaskier scowls and it’s dangerously close to a snarl, something he never would’ve allowed himself years ago, when they first meant. All those carefully constructed expressions unravel in Geralt’s presence, no longer subject to the pressure of performance and need to be human. He can just be honest now, just be… whatever he wants to be.</p>
<p>“Why, <em>what</em>? Why do I trust you? Why am I following you, singing about you, sharing your bed? You’re not fucking dense, Geralt.”</p>
<p>“You love me.”</p>
<p>Jaskier opens his mouth and closes it, then repeats the process. He looks to the side, almost ashamed, and frowns. </p>
<p>“I do.”</p>
<p>Geralt grabs his hand and Jaskier doesn’t resist, but refuses to look at him. His face is young again, even without the mask, even with the scar and the hair and the eyes plain to see. </p>
<p>“I don’t understand you.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s nose scrunches and his eyebrows furrow in irritation, “What is there to <em>understand</em>?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t done.” Geralt takes a breath and tries to collect his thoughts, sparse and scattered as they are. “I was going to say, I want to know more.”</p>
<p>“More? More than my face, my name?” Jaskier looks up, finally, with an amused but bitter tilt of a smile. “Seems an unfair trade, given I hardly know anything about <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>“Liar. You know plenty.”</p>
<p>Jaskier’s fingers rub absent circles on the back of Geralt’s hand. He stares into Geralt’s eyes, deep enough that he can feel the man in his mind, taking up the space reserved for him that aches emptiness when he isn’t around. </p>
<p>“You’re right,” Jaskier brings up their hands to examine them, eyes roving over familiar scars and callouses, “I know more about you than the average peasant. I know every detail of your skin, every subtle expression, every difference in grunts.”</p>
<p>Jaskier lets go of their hands and steps away, two steps. His hands at his side are shaking and if a witcher could cry, Geralt thinks he would. </p>
<p>“But even I can’t coax a story from silent stone.”</p>
<p>Geralt takes a step and reaches out, closing the distance. This is rare, he realizes, for him to take a step where Jaskier wouldn’t dare. He’s finding himself spurred to movement more and more often these days, prompted by more than bare curiosity. </p>
<p>“Is that what it’ll take? A story for a story?”</p>
<p>Jaskier shakes his head, grudging smile on his face. “Silly man. What more could I possibly give you, that you have not already learned?”</p>
<p>“I want it all. I want everything I can take, for every decade I’ll live.”</p>
<p>“Every century,” Jaskier corrects, gentle, teasing, “It’s yours. If you promise to take care.”</p>
<p>“I promise.” </p>
<p>Jaskier nods, thinking that’s the end of it, but Geralt presses forward. He can’t look directly at Jaskier, but he forces the words out. </p>
<p>“I trust you, too. You carry my kills, pick up my sword when it falls, and heal wounds I cannot reach.”</p>
<p>It’s a little like <em>I love you, too</em>. That’ll come later, when he feels like he breathe again. </p>
<p>Jaskier seems like he understands without the words, always so good at reading between the lines. He leads them to the bed, perching on the edge. Shoulder to shoulder, as they always are.</p>
<p>“I expect stories, Geralt. Enough to make a thousand incarnations of the masked bard famous, and,” his grin softens, into something soft and stripped of performance, “enough to know you without your armor.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums, reminiscent of the pensive way he’d answer <em>every</em> question when they first started out. Jaskier swats him, but laughs, having learned enough to know he’s not serious.</p>
<p>“I expect to understand you, before I’m driven to my grave by your contradictions.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s a bit out of my control, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>Geralt shoves him gently with his shoulder. Too gently, Jaskier doesn’t even pretend to move. </p>
<p>Jaskier gives him a wicked smile, unabashedly full of fangs but still unerringly playful. It’s <em>Jaskier</em>, all sharp edges bent and smoothed into the person he was meant to be, the person he wanted to be. Destiny be damned, Jaskier takes what he pleases from the world, two-fold what it takes from him. </p>
<p>“You’ll have to do better than that, witcher.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil. </p>
<p>Pretty sappy, but what can I say? I have a sweet tooth and an addiction to fluff.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. how bold i was, could be, will be, still am</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Come with me.”</p>
<p>Geralt sighs, like they’ve had this conversation many times before, like this isn’t the first time Jaskier has dared ask. “You know I can’t—“</p>
<p>“I’m not asking you to leave. Not forever, just- just <em>try</em> it, for a month. Take a break, a vacation, call it a recovery, I don’t care.”</p>
<p>He’s not expecting much. He knows that Geralt isn’t going to turn his life around, probably isn’t even going to take up a hobby, but he’s expecting... he’s not sure <em>what</em>. </p>
<p>Geralt is thinking, he can tell by the way his face seems to transform into solid stone, frozen and statue-like. Jaskier barely remembers when his own face was so still, expressionless, but he does remember practicing expressions in a mirror, retaking the little twitches that came so naturally before he was torn apart and put back together by the witchers. </p>
<p>Geralt’s face shifts, jaw setting with decision. “Where?”</p>
<p>“Specifically? A nice cottage on the coast. Generally? Anywhere with a beach and decent ale.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter- Jaskier knows Geralt made up his mind before he bothered asking, though he pretends to consider for a moment longer, then answers, “I’ll come.”</p>
<p>“You will? Really?” Jaskier sits up in bed next to Geralt, nearly dislodging the arm around him in the process. “No, don’t think about it again. You’ve decided, you’re done. Committed, promised.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t <em>promised</em> anything—“</p>
<p>“No, no,” Jaskier’s grin is so big it’s almost hard to speak around, “You’ve <em>promised</em> you’ll have a good time.”</p>
<p>Geralt isn’t sure how Jaskier manages to rope him into all these promises; he tries to recall similar incidents, but he gives up thinking about it halfway through, remembering far too many to count. He’s distracted, anyway- the early morning sunlight from the window scattering across Jaskier’s face seems infinitely more important, a sight he’s sure will be more common on the coast, away from the cloudy days that slowly overtake the sun in these dreary towns.  </p>
<p>Under his study, Jaskier’s smile turns devious, flashing sharp fangs. He presses closer, teasing, “Thinking of how you’ll ravish me by the seaside?”</p>
<p>“Reading my mind is Yen’s job,” Geralt smiles, unrestrained and easy, “not yours.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’d hate to take something away from the all-powerful witch. Tell me she can’t carry a tune.” Geralt doesn’t respond, which is probably wise, and Jaskier turns on him. “Geralt? Geralt, tell me.”</p>
<p>“Alright. She can’t carry a tune.”</p>
<p>“You’re <em>lying</em> to me,” Jaskier scoffs, exasperated, “but I don’t care, actually. I’d rather believe that you truly value my talent that much.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums and Jaskier shakes his head, extricating himself from Geralt’s arms and the bedsheets. He grabs his doublet from the bed post, picks out a mask, and makes for door, turning back only at Geralt’s second hum, questioning.</p>
<p>“I need to get a few things together. Just sit tight, kill a monster or something.”</p>
<p>Geralt raises an eyebrow as he watches Jaskier button his doublet in a hurry, more alert than Geralt this morning- a rare sight. “Thought I was supposed to be taking a break?”</p>
<p>“Get drunk, then. You’ve been alive long enough, surely you’ve figured out how to entertain yourself by now.”</p>
<p>“You haven’t, not without bugging me, and you’ve been around longer—“</p>
<p>“Never ask bard his age, don’t you know that’s rude? Now, sit down and be patient.”</p>
<p>There are a few things to do, a favor to call in, a cottage to locate. It’s a rush, like everything he’s ever done with Geralt. Centuries tend to drag, but having the witcher around makes him feel young and hopelessly human again.</p>
<p>It’s all fast until the end of the day when they’re completely alone, when they’ve slowed to a stop. When it’s just two heartbeats, two pints, and a soft, pleasant song. On good days, there’s a quiet, deep hum, too, but neither of them mention it.</p>
<p>(Jaskier is saving it as secret ammunition. Geralt is a <em>fan</em>.)</p>
<p>They, as Geralt predicted (what was that, a <em>year</em> ago? It feels like decades and days, at once), have plenty of time. The journey itself takes weeks, bringing them through towns that Jaskier hasn’t visited in decades.</p>
<p>The people here- in a tavern he once frequented, long before Geralt- remember when he was called Dandelion or Buttercup, or a number of other yellow flowers, as is traditional for the masked bard and his descendants. They’re delighted to hear his new material, telling him that he manages to live up to his predecessors. He tries not to laugh, or feel too much pride at the confused compliments.</p>
<p>“Quite the legend you’ve built up here,” Geralt scans the bar, and tilts his head in the direction of an ancient man comparing Jaskier to his memories of Dandelion, “I can see where all the White Wolf stuff comes from.”</p>
<p>“It’s a way to occupy my time,” Jaskier frowns down at the cards between them, sensing his impending loss, “Just like this infernal game is apparently a way to occupy yours. <em>Why</em> are you so good at this?”</p>
<p>Geralt shrugs and lays down the winning card, having put off his victory for as long as he could. Gwent isn’t something he’s had much time for, in recent years, but Jaskier insisted that he do something other than brood in the peaceful, monster-free cities they’re touring.</p>
<p>There’s <em>maybe</em> something to this whole vacation thing, but he’d never risk inflating Jaskier’s ego by telling him that. Jaskier takes to compliments like a dog to a bone- it’s why he’ll never let him win a game of Gwent, or an arm wrestling match; he’d never hear the end of it.</p>
<p>Jaskier keeps them busy, as he always does. Getting closer to the coast puts him an interesting mood, one filled with sea shanties and stupid stories- stupider than usual. Geralt hears about the month Jaskier spent on a boat, the time he unknowingly became friends with a pirate, and the real story behind <em>Fishmonger’s Daughter</em>. </p>
<p>“I’ll bet you can’t top that one, not even if you managed to pull together enough details for a real story.”</p>
<p>Jaskier is egging him on, prying, and Geralt is annoyed to feel it working, because he <em>does</em> have a better story, involving a confused griffin, a milkmaid, and a missing sock.</p>
<p>He’s not a particularly good storyteller, not like Jaskier, but it’s enough that it makes Jaskier smile, makes him laugh hard enough that he has to stop, wheezing, next to Roach and Geralt has to pull him up onto the saddle for the next few miles.</p>
<p>This thing between them is easy, comfortable, but it’s not different. It’s exactly the same as it’s been for years, and he wonders, “When did you know?” <em>When did </em>I<em> know?</em></p>
<p>Jaskier snorts, which turns into another laughing fit, the force of it sending vibrations through the saddle. He gets an elbow to the side for it, but it’s weak, trained from years of complaints about wrinkled fabric.</p>
<p>“Almost as soon as we met.” Jaskier hums, thinking, and amends, “No, after you let me write the first song.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t <em>let</em> you—“</p>
<p>Jaskier’s grip on his shoulder tightens, squeezing through the armor. “Geralt, if you wanted to stop me you would’ve.”</p>
<p>That’s- true, actually. Gods, has it been that long?</p>
<p>“I always appreciated that you knew what I was, but,” Jaskier waves a hand, dangerously close to Geralt’s head, “didn’t make me pick a side, I suppose. I’d never met anyone I could trust with that, before.”</p>
<p>Geralt swallows a lump in his throat and says, before he decides to, “It was the same. For me.”</p>
<p>He’s not sure which part he’s talking about, really, but Jaskier seems to. He nods and Geralt trusts his judgement, as Jaskier always figures this stuff out before him. If he ever figures it out at all.</p>
<p>When they reach their destination, Geralt is almost sad to see the journey over, though he knows the vacation itself has only just begun. If Jaskier’s smile is anything to measure by, he has a lot to look forward to.</p>
<p>They settle on the sands of a deserted beach, far from prying eyes. </p>
<p>Geralt has stripped off his armor and, although it lays within arm’s reach, it feels like a step. Albeit a practical one, with the heat of the sun beating down on them. </p>
<p>He looks at Jaskier expectantly and it takes Jaskier a few seconds to understand what he wants, to recognize the weight he’s been carrying- the mask, after all this time, is barely noticeable. Jaskier looks up at the sun, feels the light, and hesitates; this is new territory, to unveil his eyes outside the dark of night when nobody would notice anyway. </p>
<p>He takes off the mask and puts it beside him, just as close as Geralt’s armor. </p>
<p>“Can’t have tanlines,” he mutters, a silly excuse that Geralt responds to with a solemn nod.</p>
<p>Geralt’s intense eyes deepen the effect, especially when he tacks on a deathly serious, “Oh, the horror.”</p>
<p>Jaskier just about loses it, there on the sands with no one else to witness. Wrinkles around gold eyes, sharp teeth showing, old scars revealed where his doublet has been discarded.</p>
<p>On the coast, with Jaskier reclined, head thrown back in laughter, Geralt thinks he gets it. For so long, there were the incongruent parts of <em>witcher</em> Jaskier and <em>bard</em> Jaskier, but now-</p>
<p>Well, now it’s just <em>Jaskier</em>. If he concentrates, there are still missing pieces, questions he’d like to ask, things he’d like to know, but they can all be saved for another day.</p>
<p>He understands now. He understands what Jaskier, and Yennefer, meant all those times they discussed choice. Right now, on the sands of the coast, Geralt chooses to stray from the Path- or to make his own Path. Redirect the Path, take a step off the Path- one of those.</p>
<p>He’s choosing Jaskier, which, he’s realizing somewhat belatedly, is the easiest, most obvious choice he could’ve made.</p>
<p>Especially when Jaskier chooses him back. Chooses him when blood drips from his hands and teeth. Chooses him when he returns with a new scar. Chooses him when he growls, when he’s rude or stupid.</p>
<p>Chooses him when he sees Geralt, really <em>sees</em>, and doesn’t flinch.</p>
<p>Picking off pieces of armor, washing guts out of his hair, weaving his life into a <em>song</em>. Making a life he didn’t choose into something beautiful, something they’ve made together- and their adventure is undeniably <em>together</em>; there were too many contracts he may not have made it through had Jaskier not been there, in person or song.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s hand rests on his, entwining them so the sand beneath brushes his fingertips. At the contact, Geralt feels his heartbeat, as clear as it was the first day.</p>
<p>Where once it took minutes to find him in a tavern, today, Geralt thinks he could find Jaskier from a town away, the distinct smell and sound and feeling like nothing else in the world.</p>
<p>They’re a contradiction, both of them. They shouldn’t fit together as well as they do, shouldn’t be able to function as a tough bard and a soft witcher, or the other way around, but Jaskier smiles and Geralt smiles back and that’s enough, he’s sure.</p>
<p>Jaskier leans forward as the sun begins to set, leaking light onto the surface of the ocean. It creates a halo around him that matches his eyes. “How about a song? To celebrate the occasion.”</p>
<p>“What occasion?”</p>
<p>“<em>Us</em>.” It’s emphatic, probably more than he intended it to be because he adds, sheepishly, “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>Geralt hums, privately thinking it’s a pretty good occasion. “Toss a Coin?”</p>
<p>“Thought you hated that one?” Jaskier looks surprised, or pretends to. “I wouldn’t want to put you through unnecessary turmoil.”</p>
<p>Geralt remembers the first time he heard it, in its final draft. Jaskier had glowed on stage, a proper bard, and Geralt had felt his eyes on him, had felt seen for the first time.</p>
<p><em>That was when. I didn’t realize, but </em>that<em> was when it happened.</em></p>
<p>“It’s not so bad, when you sing it.”</p>
<p>Jaskier lifts his lute and if he thinks that it’s a bad song for a coastal vacation, or an overplayed song, he doesn’t mention it. He’d never tell, but he’s remembering, too, when he <em>saw</em> Geralt, through the crowd, in the back. Dark and broody as ever.</p>
<p>A far cry from the smile he sees now, or the hum he feels travel through his hand, to his heart.</p>
<p>The sun sets, fading glow washing the world in the grey tones of night vision, and they are alone.</p>
<p>They have all night. They have all week, all month, all year—</p>
<p>All century, by each other’s side. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from The Horror and The Wild by The Amazing Devil. </p>
<p>Parts and drafts of this story have been sitting on my flash drive for months, so I'm very excited to see it all come together and to read the wonderful comments you've all left! Believe it or not, this was supposed to be short but it kind of took on a life of its own and became way more shippy than I originally intended. </p>
<p>Witcher! Jaskier has always been a super interesting concept to me, so I might end up writing more in this universe. Maybe delve deeper into Jaskier's backstory, or explore more canon-related shenangans, or just add some fun oneshots. Let me know if y'all would be interested in something like that. </p>
<p>I have a tumblr @thepetulantpen, so feel free to shoot me an ask or message or whatever! I don't have a ton to do since we're still in quarantine so I'd love to chat!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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